The light of hundreds of torches if not more illuminated the winding streets of Strompool as mobs of people descended on the city's foreign quarter. It had been several hours since the news of Master Alchemist and highly respected member of his community, Gerrick Ventani, had been murdered. Although the culprit in the murder, a reanimated skeleton that had been chased through the streets by both the city guard and citizens, was still at large, it mattered not as tensions within the city had reached their breaking point.
To outsiders, the cracks in Strompool’s society might not have been immediately visible. But those who had lived there long enough knew that the city had been simmering for years and it all began with the crippling of Leonida Stellato some ten years prior.
Leonida Stellato, a young and ambitious merchant, was the pride of those living in the Foreign Quarter. Her family had long been established in Strompool ever since the quarter was founded over a century prior. Over the years, the Stellato family’s fortunes had risen steadily. Through the hard work of sons and daughters finding their trades in the bustling markets of the city, the family would go from a family of lowly dockworkers to one of the largest merchant families in the quarter. They became known not only for their hard work but for their integrity and acumen, earning the respect of both their neighbors and the native citizens of Strompool.
Amongst the family, Leonida was the latest in this line of success. With a sharp mind and a keen eye for opportunity, she quickly rose to prominence within the city’s mercantile circles. Unlike many of her contemporaries, Leonida wasn’t content with simply maintaining her family’s position as merchants; she had far more grand ambitions. She envisioned buying a title and establishing what she hoped to be a long and noble dynasty. Her skill in brokering deals, her understanding of both local and foreign markets, and her ability to handle the pompous aristocratic families of Strompool had all been the stuff of stories and all pointed to a future where she could have rivaled even the oldest and most established of the city’s families.
But sadly, that was not to be.
One night, after finalizing a deal with an Arcadian merchant, Leonida was on her way home when she had the misfortune of meeting three particularly drunk men. Although what was said is not known, what happened afterward is. The next day, her battered and broken body was found in an alleyway. Much of the damage was severe with many broken bones and swollen cuts running all across her body but perhaps the most devastating of all was her back. A broken bottle had been pushed into her back, severing her spine and leaving her crippled from the waist down.
Although the men were found within the coming days and summarily hanged by the gibbet, the damage they had caused had been irreversible. This attack would leave a rift between those in the foreign quarter and the rest of the city, one that would continue to grow as incidents became more and more common between the two sides. It was only a matter of time before the tensions that had been simmering for years burst into the open.
“Justice for Garrick!” the crowds roared as they marched to the entrance to the foreign quarter. In front of them, a line of city guardsmen wearing furs had gathered and behind them inside the quarter entrance, another crowd was forming.
Although they only made up a small minority inside the foreign quarter, the majority being the many Vaelorians who came from the southern empire, a large number of Thalorians had assembled to defend the area. Though they were only dockworkers, it mattered not as they stood firm, hands grasping paddles, chains, and whatever else they could find.
“Back, all of you, back!” one of the guard captains yelled as he and his men pushed people back with their shields, but his command was lost in the cacophony as both sides fought each other. Stones, bottles, and whatever else had been lying on the ground were thrown through the air. In one particular section of the rioting, a circle had formed around two men.
One of the men, a burly Chetuvian with a bloodied face and torn clothes brandished a makeshift club—an old piece of wood splintered and jagged at one end. His thick, muscular frame bore the marks of a logger, his skin weathered and scarred from years of cutting wood in the frozen wilderness. His breath came in ragged puffs, visible in the frigid night air, as he squared off against his opponent.
Facing him was a much leaner, but no less fierce, Thalorian. The Thalorian’s build was much leaner, honed from years of navigating barges into and out of the city. He held a broken bottle in one hand, its sharp edges glinting menacingly in the torchlight. His movements were swift, like a predator circling its prey, and his eyes—dark and alert—never left the Chetuvian.
You going to fight me like a man you sea-rat?” the Chetuvian said mockingly, his thick accent almost slurring the words as he glared hatefully at the man in front of him. "Or are you just going to crawl back to your boat like the wave-crawler you are and do more dark magic?"
The Thalorian’s lips curled into a tight, humorless smile as he adjusted his grip on the broken bottle. “We do not practice the dark arts but you wouldn't know that would you, you ice-dicked mother fucker?” he replied coldly.
The Chetuvian snarled. “Any why should we believe the lies of a sea-rat? You people have been a plague upon this city ever since those damm nobles brought you here!” he yelled as the crowd behind him roared in agreement. The Thalorian remained unfazed, his expression hardening as he faced the Chetuvian and the hostile crowd. Seeing that, the Chetuvian continued to berate him, a dark smile growing on his face.“You think you’re something special, don’t you?” he sneered. “But you’re nothing, just like that bitch Leonida was nothing. She thought she could rise above her station, too, and look where that got her.”
The Thalorian’s reaction was immediate and visceral. His eyes flared with rage, and he took a menacing step forward, his entire body trembling with fury. “You keep Leonida’s name from your filthy snow-eating mouth, or I’ll carve it out myself.”
The crowd around them gasped, the tension escalating as the Thalorian’s rage boiled over. The Chetuvian’s smile only widened, pleased to have struck a nerve. “Oh, I’ll say her name,” he taunted, taking a step closer, his face inches from the Thalorian’s. “Leonida. A fool who got what she deserved, just like all you wave-crawling, sea-scum bastards will.”
The Thalorian’s face twisted with hatred, and before the Chetuvian could react, he lunged forward, the broken bottle flashing in his hand. “You’ll choke on those words, you frost-bitten son of a bitch!”.
Contrary to what many in the crowd—and even the Thalorian himself—had believed, the Chetuvian was surprisingly nimble. As the jagged edge of the bottle sliced through the air, he jumped backward, avoiding the strike with a speed that belied his burly frame. The movement was fluid, almost too quick for his size, and the Thalorian’s eyes narrowed in frustration.
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The Thalorian didn’t hesitate, his muscles tensing as he adjusted his stance, ready for the next attack. But the Chetuvian was already moving, his thick boots pounding the cobblestones as he surged forward, the splintered club swinging with brutal force. The Thalorian ducked, feeling the rush of air as the club whistled just above his head, splintering against the wall behind him with a sickening crunch. Without missing a beat, the Thalorian retaliated, slashing upward with the broken bottle. The sharp glass caught the Chetuvian across the cheek, opening a deep gash that sent blood spraying across the street. The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and gasps as the Chetuvian staggered back, his face twisted in pain and fury, blood streaming down his face and neck.
But the wound only seemed to fuel his rage. With a roar, the Chetuvian charged again, ignoring the blood that dripped down his chin. He swung the club with murderous intent, the jagged wood aimed straight at the Thalorian’s head. The Thalorian barely had time to twist away, the club grazing his shoulder and tearing through his tunic, leaving a trail of raw, scraped skin in its wake. The Thalorian gritted his teeth against the pain and drove forward, the broken bottle still in his grip. He feinted to the right, then darted left, bringing the bottle down hard on the Chetuvian’s forearm. The glass shattered on impact, the jagged edges sinking into flesh and ripping through muscle, drawing a howl of agony from the larger man.
Blood poured from the Chetuvian’s arm, but he didn’t relent. He swung the club wildly, catching the Thalorian across the ribs with a sickening thud that knocked the wind out of him. The Thalorian gasped, stumbling backward, his ribs screaming in protest. But he forced himself to stay upright, his vision narrowing as the pain fueled his desperate anger. The Chetuvian, his face a mask of blood and fury, didn’t give him a moment’s respite. He lunged forward again, the club now dripping with his blood, and aimed a savage blow at the Thalorian’s head. The Thalorian, his movements growing sluggish from the pain, barely managed to raise his arm in defense. The club connected with his forearm with a sickening crunch, the impact sending a jolt of pain up his arm and nearly knocking him to the ground.
The crowd was roaring now, their voices a chaotic blend of bloodlust and excitement, urging the two combatants to finish the fight. But neither man seemed willing to give in, each driven by a deep, seething hatred that demanded blood.
The Thalorian, gasping for breath, staggered back, his arm hanging limp at his side. But his eyes were still sharp, still burning with defiance. He spat blood onto the cobblestones, glaring at the Chetuvian through the haze of pain. “Is that all you’ve got, you snow-sucking bastard?” he growled, his voice rough but unwavering.
The Chetuvian sneered, his bloodied face twisted with grim satisfaction as he stepped closer, intent on finishing the job. He raised his club, prepared to deliver the final blow, but just as he did, the ground beneath his feet trembled ever so slightly. The Thalorian, already half-delirious from pain, blinked in confusion, his gaze shifting from his opponent to the cobblestones underfoot. Something wasn’t right.
The Chetuvian hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the shift in the earth. But he quickly shook it off, tightening his grip on the splintered club, determined to end this fight. He took another step forward, ready to strike—but then the ground shook again, this time more violently, causing him to falter.
Around them, some of the rioters also began to pause, their bloodlust momentarily overshadowed by the unsettling tremor. Confusion rippled through the crowd as more people started to notice the vibrations under their feet, the anger in their shouts giving way to confusion.
The Chetuvian, now visibly disconcerted, glanced around as the shaking intensified. His breath came in ragged gasps, his earlier bravado wavering as the ground beneath them rumbled ominously. “What the hell…?” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the growing murmur of the crowd.
He raised his club again as if to silence the fear gnawing at the edges of his mind, but before he could strike, the ground convulsed violently. The earth cracked beneath his boots, and with a deafening roar, a surge of magical energy erupted from the ground, spilling forth from sewer openings and manholes in rays of colored energy.
The air was suddenly thick with a blinding, searing light, as arcs of energy crackled and danced across the streets. The once-solid cobblestones buckled and shattered under the pressure, sending fragments flying in all directions. The crowd, now fully gripped by fear, screamed in terror as they scrambled to escape the chaotic torrent of magic surging through the streets.
He barely had time to register what was happening—his eyes widening in shock, his body frozen in place—before the manhole cover slammed into his skull with a sickening crunch. The force of the impact was immense, the golden edge of the disk carving through bone and flesh as it tore into his head, sending shockwaves of pain and confusion through his body. The sheer momentum sent him reeling backward, his knees buckling under the force, but somehow, he still stood. Blood sprayed across the cobblestones, painting the street in crimson as the Chetuvian, driven by sheer instinct or some twisted sense of defiance, took one staggering step, then another. His eyes, once full of hate and fury, were now glassy and vacant, the life draining from them with each faltering movement. The manhole cover, still partially embedded in his skull, weighed heavily on him, pulling him down with every breath he tried to take.
Finally, the strength left him. His legs gave out, and his lifeless form crumpled to the ground, the weight of the transformed manhole cover crushing his skull beyond recognition. Blood pooled beneath him, the golden disk gleaming with a macabre beauty as it lay half-buried in the gore.
The Thalorian, still reeling from the fight and the strange events unfolding around him, watched in stunned silence as the Chetuvian’s body lay crumpled on the ground, blood pooling around him. The magical energy continued to surge, spilling out from every crack and crevice it could escape from, filling the air with a deafening shriek as the elemental forces began to affect the wider world. The ground trembled violently, the very earth groaning under the strain of the unleashed power. Buildings that had stood for centuries began to crack and crumble as the foundations shifted, their walls splitting open as if under immense pressure.
Above, the sky itself seemed to react to the surge of energy. Dark, swirling clouds formed rapidly, blotting out the stars and casting the city into an eerie, unnatural twilight. Bolts of lightning, tinged with hues of green and purple, arced across the sky, striking the tallest spires and towers with explosive force. The air grew thick and heavy, charged with the raw power of the unleashed magic, making it difficult to breathe.
In the streets, the elemental energies began to manifest in chaotic and terrifying ways. Flames burst from the ground, setting wooden carts and structures alight, while torrents of water erupted from broken pipes, flooding the lower parts of the city in a matter of moments. The very cobblestones beneath the fleeing citizens' feet buckled and twisted as vines and roots, unnaturally accelerated by the magical surge, tore through the stone and spread rapidly across the streets.
The wind howled through the narrow alleys, carrying with it a bitter, icy chill that seemed to freeze the breath in people's lungs. Gusts of wind whipped through the city with hurricane force, tearing signs from buildings and hurling debris through the air. In some places, the ground split open entirely, revealing glowing chasms that radiated heat or cold, depending on the element that had taken hold.
People screamed as the chaos spread, their terror only growing as they witnessed the unnatural phenomena. Some were caught in the sudden floods, dragged under by the powerful frozen currents; others were trapped in the flames that now licked at the sides of buildings. The lucky ones who managed to escape found themselves outside of the city's walls, watching the disaster unfold from a distance.
A young woman, tears streaming down her soot-streaked face, whispered a prayer to whatever gods might be listening, her voice trembling with fear. Beside her, an elderly man sank to his knees, his eyes fixed on the burning city, as if unable to comprehend that this was real, that this was happening. Yet for many of those who watched the carnage unfold, one thought reigned supreme.
This was the apocalypse.